


The Evenings, Mornings, Afternoons

by lotherington



Series: Once Below a Time [1]
Category: Atonement (2007), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1930s, AU, Angst, Crossover, Historical, M/M, Romance, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:03:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hottest day of the summer of 1935. </p><p>AU Crossover with Ian McEwan's <i>Atonement</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And How Should I Begin?

**Author's Note:**

> You don't have to have read or seen _Atonement_ to understand this, I hope, though I would urge you to as both the book and film are fantastic. This will stray from the plot of the book in quite a few ways. The title of the 'verse is from [Once Below a Time](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/once-below-a-time/) by Dylan Thomas and the title of this part and chapter are both from [The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock](http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html) by T. S. Eliot. The warnings/rating will change as the story progresses. I hope you enjoy it!

_August, 1935_

Mycroft Holmes turned the handle of his bone china teacup ninety degrees, the base of the cup making a scraping sound against its saucer. The heavy curtains shifted minutely in the barely-there summer breeze from the open French doors that led onto the balcony. Mycroft remained out of sight, just inside the hallway that came to a stop with the doors, but with a clear enough view of the large, deep fountain on the lawn. He lifted his teacup to his lips and watched as his brother approached the fountain, gripping an Erlenmeyer flask at its neck. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Mycroft’s neck as he tilted his wrist and sipped his tea, which scalded his throat on its way down.

***

‘You’ve been avoiding me.’

Sherlock glanced up from where he was leaning over the fountain, his flat stomach pressing against the hot stone that formed its raised edge. He frowned and went back to fishing around in the water, the rolled-up cuffs of his shirt sleeves growing damp.

The morning sun beat down on the Holmes residence and its impressive gardens. John Watson, twenty-three, seated himself on the fountain’s edge, a few feet away from Sherlock, one tanned hand spread across the sun-warmed stone. ‘First chance I’ve had to talk to you in nearly a year.’ John brought his right arm across his body and dipped his hand into the water, his eyes flicking between where his wrist disappeared underneath the water’s surface and Sherlock’s face, where perspiration beaded at his temple. ‘And that’s even with the both of us being at Oxford together during the term--’

‘I’ve been busy.’ Sherlock glared before rolling onto his side, reaching down in the water all the way to his shoulder, his shirt sleeve sodden, clinging to his arm. 

‘I see.’ John rubbed a waxy water lily petal between his finger and thumb. 

Sitting up, Sherlock held the few inches of water the flask now contained up to the sunlight, squinting at its clarity. ‘Mycroft informs me you’re training to be a doctor.’ Sherlock threw the water back into the fountain, his grip on the flask slipping. Eyes drawn to the sudden movement, John reached out to steady Sherlock’s hand. He caught Sherlock’s damp wrist between his fingers, the index and middle of which slipped automatically to take Sherlock’s pulse. ‘Although I’d thank you not to practise on me,’ Sherlock snapped, jerking his wrist out of John’s gentle grasp. His hold on the flask faltered once more and, fingers fumbling uselessly after it, Sherlock watched as it fell into the water with a quiet splash.

Sherlock’s face twisted into an ugly expression, the skin at the bridge of his nose furrowing, his slightly crooked teeth bared. ‘You idiot! That was a present from my friend!’

‘Was it indeed?’ John smiled, Sherlock growing more indignant.

‘You can’t just--’ Sherlock cut himself off and snarled, hands going to where his fine leather braces rested at his shoulders. He thumbed them off and hastily began to undo his shirt, his eyes locked with John’s.

‘Sherlock, what are you doing?’ John murmured as Sherlock’s pale chest slowly revealed itself, his small, dark nipples a pleasing juxtaposition to his English rose skin. Sherlock threw his shirt to the ground and began to fumble with the buttons on his trousers, which he shoved down his legs. Straightening up, he stared at John, daring him to say something. John swallowed and remained silent, keeping his gaze locked with Sherlock’s.

They had been half-clothed in front of each other before, of course, back when they were boys. Somehow, though, somehow this felt different; the challenge in Sherlock’s eyes was unlike anything John had ever seen before, the pounding of John’s heart was new and other and different, the rush of heat he felt at the sight of Sherlock was strange and frightening. Flustered, John sighed and shifted his weight, folding his arms as he stared off to one side rather than watch as Sherlock slid into and underneath the water in the deep fountain, his dark hair fanning out on the surface like a lilypad before he disappeared entirely. 

A bead of sweat broke at John’s temple and ran down his face, curving around his jaw as the seconds elapsed. A splash was heard from the fountain, Sherlock’s rear cresting over its surface as he dove down to retrieve the flask.

John closed his eyes and counted in his head. _Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty..._

The crashing sound of the water as Sherlock re-emerged drew John’s attention back to the fountain, where Sherlock’s feet stumbled on the hot stone of the fountain’s edge as he fell forwards, over-estimating the amount of force he’d needed to propel himself from the water. He was still coltish and graceless, still not used to the long, thin limbs he’d developed. His hair clung to his pale neck, his forehead, water dripping onto his shoulders and down his wiry arms, droplets jumping off his fingertips onto the ground below.

John’s eyes travelled to where Sherlock’s chest was heaving up and down, before flicking his gaze back up to Sherlock’s parted, reddened lips.

The white underwear Sherlock wore had turned see-through, the material clinging to the visible outline of his cock. He clutched his flask in his right hand, his knuckles whitening around the neck. John glanced at Sherlock’s face once more then averted his eyes, cheeks pinking as he wet his lips.

Face hard, Sherlock breathed out heavily through his nose as he stepped down from the edge of the fountain, placing the flask on the ground as he pulled his trousers back on, then his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, snapping the braces back on to his shoulders. He grabbed the flask and began to stride back up towards the house, sun-warmed grass sticking to his bare feet.

***

Out of sight, upstairs, just inside the hallway before the balcony, Mycroft watched.

***

John remained still for a moment, staring at the calm-again surface of the fountain’s water as the sun beat down upon it. ‘Sherlock,’ he called, jogging to catch up. ‘Sherlock, I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’ Sherlock remained facing forwards, his sodden hair curling at the tips. His voice was dismissive. 

‘I shouldn’t have laughed. I’ve heard about... about your new friend. He sounds really rather nice.’

‘Yes. He is.’ Sherlock thrust a tin out of his pocket towards John, his pace slowing. ‘Roll me a cigarette, won’t you?’

John took the tin and sat down on the winding stone steps at the side of the house once they reached them. The scent of the climbing passion flowers hung heavy in the air. Sherlock sat next to John and turned the flask over in his hands.

‘He’s got a terrier.’

‘Who has?’ John prised the lid of the tin open and folded a cigarette paper out, sprinkling some tobacco onto it.

‘Victor.’ Sherlock reached out and tugged one of the elaborate passion flowers off the vine, bringing it to his nose and breathing its cloyingly sweet scent in. ‘My friend.’

‘Ah, yes.’ John rolled the paper tightly and licked the edge, folding it down to seal it. He lit the cigarette with the lighter in his own pocket before handing it to Sherlock. ‘I heard about your run-in with the dog.’

Sherlock took the cigarette and inhaled, holding it between his lips as he rolled his trouser leg up. ‘Bite’s only just healed,’ he said quietly, gesturing to the patches of skin that were slightly reddened, in the shape of the bite pattern of a small dog.

John touched Sherlock’s leg, his warm hand wrapping around Sherlock’s thin calf. Sherlock’s breath hitched and he coughed as he expelled his lungful of smoke.

‘You ought to take care of that,’ John murmured, glancing up at Sherlock briefly before returning his eyes to Sherlock’s leg. ‘Wouldn’t want it to scar.’ 

‘No,’ Sherlock agreed, taking John’s hand off his leg and holding it by the wrist, seeking out John’s pulse. ‘I didn’t mean to be horrid, earlier.’

‘You were horrid,’ John said, pushing the fountain and the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on the inside of his wrist to the back of his mind.

Sherlock’s lips twitched. ‘You’ll make a fine doctor. You always did want to be one, didn’t you, when we were boys?’

John laughed and nodded. ‘I did, yes. I seem to remember Mycroft saying quite seriously that he was going to rule the world. I know I was going to save lives and sometimes shoot wrongdoers and you... oh, what was it you wanted to be?’

Sherlock smiled. ‘A pirate,’ he said. He let John’s hand go and placed the passionflower in the flask, where it rested on top of the flask’s rounded lip.

‘A pirate, that was it!’ John said, grinning. ‘How about it, then? We steal Mycroft’s car, drive to the coast and take over the first ship we see. We’ll be in the Caribbean in a week, India in two if you fancy it.’

‘That’s a very bold estimation of both the speed of our stolen ship and our sailing abilities. The Caribbean and India are also in entirely different directions. Normandy would be far more reasonable.’

John smiled. ‘I could always take you out on the lake after you’ve finished with dinner. Find you a wooden leg and a parrot from your grandmother’s taxidermy collection.’ 

Sherlock smiled. The sunlight was not as bright where they sat, in the shadow of the house, but Sherlock’s strange eyes still shone brilliantly. 

‘We’d look the pair,’ he murmured, turning the passion flower over in his hands. 

John smiled, huffing a laugh through his nose. ‘You’d look magnificent as a pirate.’

Sherlock ducked his head, looking like an overgrown schoolboy rather than the young man of twenty he was. ‘Not exactly the career choice Father has in mind.’

‘I don’t imagine that’s the case, no. Why don’t you see if you can use your... your deductions in your line of work? Is there a profession where you could do that?’

‘If there were to be one, I’d probably have to invent it.’

John smiled again. ‘You’d be brilliant at whatever you set your mind to.’

‘Well.’ Sherlock winced when his unsmoked cigarette burnt down to the quick, the heat biting his fingers. He threw it down the steps, ash scattering onto the wind. ‘I ought to go. My cousins have been running Mummy ragged.’ He turned to face John, resting his hand on John’s shoulder and then leaning in fractionally. 

John blinked. 

‘I really ought to go.’ Sherlock jumped to his feet, grabbing the flask again and running up the remainder of the steps, through the doors into the big house. John sighed and ran after him. 

‘Sherlock!’ he called. ‘Sherlock, wait!’

***

‘John,’ Mycroft said as John stumbled into the big house just in time to see Sherlock’s heels disappearing up the enormous carpeted stairs. John stuttered to a stop, eyebrows raising. He hadn’t been expecting Mycroft to be there, but then, Mycroft was usually where you least expected him to be. He looked as put together and serious as ever in his three-piece suit, despite the blistering heat both inside and outside the house. He turned to listen to Sherlock run up the stairs. Sweat had beaded on his brow. ‘I don’t suppose you can shed any light on why my brother looks as though he fell in the lake?’

John frowned minutely. It wasn’t like Mycroft to have not deduced everything about the situation with barely more than a passing glance at Sherlock. ‘He fell in the fountain,’ John replied. ‘Well. Jumped in.’

‘...I see.’ Mycroft sniffed and dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. ‘You will join us for dinner, won’t you?’ There was an odd look in Mycroft’s eyes.

‘Oh, I...’

‘I insist.’ Mycroft smiled his smile that wasn’t really a smile at all, just the slightest hint of gritted teeth behind stretched lips.

‘Very well then.’ John fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, which was rolled up by his elbow. 

‘You can tell me about your medical ambitions,’ Mycroft said, rocking up onto the balls of his feet, his fingers occupied with re-folding his handkerchief and placing it back in his breast pocket.

‘Oh, they’re not very interesting. Rather like me, I suppose.’ John laughed.

‘Sherlock finds you interesting.’

John’s eyes snapped to Mycroft’s. ‘He does?’ He looked away, embarrassed at his eagerness. ‘I rather thought he’d made avoiding me his life’s work of late.’

Mycroft’s lips twitched in a way John didn’t like. He walked a few feet to the door that led to one of the many drawing rooms the house held. John followed. ‘I’ve a friend coming to dinner. Giles Gilchrist, have you heard of him?’

‘Uh, the name’s familiar--’

‘He played rugby for one of the Oxford colleges until a couple of years ago. I know you’ve continued with it whilst at university.’

‘I’ve probably played against him at one time or another.’

A hot, stale breeze blew through the hallway.

‘Quite the bright young thing. He inherited a substantial gambling debt from his father and managed to pay it all off within a year of leaving university. Made a fortune in the gold mines in South Africa.’

John raised his eyebrows, attempting to look interested. For all his skill with reading people, Mycroft had always - and still did - carry on far too much about those people he found impressive. Sherlock, who couldn’t care a whit about power or money or influence, loathed him for it, and John found it rather tiresome. ‘It’ll be a pleasure to meet him. What time should I arrive?’

‘Drinks at half past six, dinner at half past seven--’

‘As usual, then.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I ought to go.’ John smiled. ‘Ah... tell Sherlock that I hope his flask’s alright.’

Mycroft’s face was blank, but he nodded once. ‘We’ll see you at six thirty then, John.’

‘Half past six,’ John agreed, turning his back on Mycroft and walking out of the house, back down the path that led to the far more humble cottage he and his mother shared.


	2. Out of the Sighs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon descends into evening, and Sherlock has something he can no longer keep to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from [Out of the Sighs](http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/dylan-thomas/out-of-the-sighs/) by Dylan Thomas.

‘Johnny, is that you?’ Mrs Watson called from the crowded living room at the front of the cottage.

‘Yes, mum,’ John replied, closing the butter yellow back door behind himself, stepping into the kitchen. A jar of dark red jam was open on the wooden table, a spoon sticking out of it. John spread the jam thickly on a slice of bread that was under a cloth on the kitchen side with the back of the spoon and walked into the living room, where his mother lay on the chintz sofa, fanning herself. ‘Hello,’ John said around a mouthful of bread and jam.

‘Hello, love. How’s everyone up at the big house?’ She held out her hand and John took it, sitting down on the stool next to her. 

‘I only saw Sherlock and Mycroft.’

A fly buzzed around the vase of daisies on the windowsill.

‘Well, how are they?’

‘Mycroft was his usual self. Sherlock...’ John looked out of the window, where a wing of the big house was just visible. ‘Sherlock was as... as brilliant and puzzling as ever.’

John thought back to what had transpired at the fountain, to Sherlock’s pale skin, the moles on his back, the way his underwear had clung to his body. His deep voice, his plump lips, his strange, beautiful eyes.

‘He is an odd one,’ Mrs Watson said, her eyes closed. ‘Even odder since he went up to Oxford. I’m surprised you don’t see more of each other there--’

‘We’re both very busy, mother. He has his chemistry and I’ve medicine to concentrate on--’

‘Time was you were inseparable.’ She squeezed John’s hand. ‘Still. You’re both very different, aren’t you?’

John ate another bite of bread and jam. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, chalk and cheese, practically.’ The fly continued to buzz around the daisies, the sound erratic. ‘They’ve got their cousins staying with them, haven’t they?’

Mrs Watson nodded. ‘Those poor boys don’t know whether they’re coming or going. And that sister of theirs can be ever so unkind to them, you know, but she’s upset, too, and...’

‘It is a shame,’ John agreed, rubbing his thumb over the back of his mother’s hands, along one of her veins.

‘Rotten thing, divorce. Anyway, darling, what would you like for your tea?’

‘Oh, actually, Mycroft’s invited me to dinner.’ John finished his bread and wiped his hand on his trousers, scattering the breadcrumbs all over the floor. ‘He’s got a millionaire friend he wants to show off.’

‘Don’t be unkind,’ his mother scolded gently. ‘You know Mycroft values having friends.’

‘Yes, as long as they’ve got hundreds of thousands with the bank or if, like him, they’re chums with the prime minister.’

‘Oh, he’s not friends with the prime minister, Johnny--’

‘No, you’re right, he’s probably telling the prime minister what to do on the telephone every night, secretly running the country.’

‘Stop it, you horrible boy,’ John’s mother said, smiling as she tapped John’s arm. John laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘Oh, you’re rotten. I’ll heat you some water for a bath, we can’t have you going to dinner looking as though you’ve been dragged through hedge backwards.’ She sat up and rested her hand on top of John’s head. ‘Go and find your suit and I’ll see if it needs ironing.’

***

After running upstairs, away from Mycroft and John and whatever had happened at the fountain and on the steps outside, Sherlock threw his sodden clothes into the wicker laundry hamper in his room, fighting with his shirt cuffs that seemed to tighten around his wrists as he tried to yank it off. Once he’d managed to get his shirt off, he pulled the door of his wardrobe open and stood naked in front of the mirror that hung inside it. He glared at his too-long neck, his boyish limbs, his recessive chin, his snub nose and his stupid, unruly hair. He was too thin by half and so _ugly_ \- still not grown into his odd features as his mother told him he would.

Irritable, Sherlock grabbed a towel from the stand against the wall and dried himself off more thoroughly, rubbing hard at his hair. He lolled on the chaise longue underneath his window and pulled his new packet of fancy French cigarettes towards himself, throwing his leg over the low back of the chaise. He split the paper seal with his thumb and pulled one of the cigarettes out, lighting it with a match from the box that atop the pages of a book about chemical reactions, lying open on the carpet. What had he been thinking, taking his clothes off and jumping in the fountain? In front of John? He was mad, utterly mad. 

Sherlock inhaled from the cigarette resting in between his lips. John’s face when Sherlock had surfaced from the water - he’d looked horrified. It had been an altogether stupid stunt to pull, losing control like that, shouting at John and standing in front of him as good as naked, displaying himself. And making such a fuss about the flask, too. Sherlock frowned at where it sat on the edge of his desk, passion flower still resting in the lip. No harm had come to it and he’d seen fit to throw his clothes off in front of John; John who’d laughed at him, whose smile was warm and natural, John who was handsome and clever and kind, whom Sherlock _wanted_...

Groaning in frustration, Sherlock threw the box of matches at the wall, covering his face with his hands. It was all so very difficult.

jumped up from the chaise and wrapped himself up in his blue silk robe.

***

John sank down into the bath, dipping his head underneath the water and remaining submerged for nearly half a minute. He took a gasp as he resurfaced, his hands gripping the bath’s sides. He couldn’t get Sherlock out of his mind. Sighing, he took his crumpled box of cigarettes off the small wooden stool next to the bath and lit one with the lighter he’d bought himself last year in Oxford. 

He closed his eyes as he smoked, the image of Sherlock at the fountain’s edge - soaking wet and stumbling - replaying in his mind’s eye. It had been nearly four years since he’d let himself think of Sherlock in that way, and the events of today and the artificial distance they’d crafted between themselves over the past year only seemed to exacerbate John’s desire. 

Perhaps, though, perhaps it was the all-consuming heat of the day that was sending his blood up as he pictured Sherlock, plump lips parted and flushed, head thrown back, long limbs spread, cock hard and thick and leaking. Perhaps it had something to do with the heat.

John bit down on his cigarette and slipped his left hand beneath the surface of the water.

He really shouldn’t think like this. It couldn’t possibly come to any good.

***

The twins were making a terrible racket in the nursery, which was next to the bathroom which Sherlock liked to use best. He’d bathed and was currently shaving, nicking himself occasionally with every surprise bang or squeal from next door. After the third tiny patch of blood welled up on his jaw, Sherlock strode over to the common wall between the bathroom and the nursery and slammed his palm against it several times.

‘For God’s sake, find something to do that doesn’t have you squealing like pigs!’ he roared, waiting a few seconds for silence to descend before he went back to the sink, lathering shaving cream over the other side of his face with the brush that had been an eighteenth birthday gift from his father. He took more care with the blade against his skin this time, scratching the hairs on his top lip away with short little movements.

The door of the nursery slammed open and Sherlock heard two pairs of feet hammering against the floorboards as the twins, undoubtedly, ran past his room. Clenching his jaw and throwing the direction of their fading footsteps a filthy look through the bathroom door, Sherlock finished his shave with one final swipe to his cheek. He rinsed and dried his face before attempting to comb his hair into something resembling a tidy style, the beads of water running down the back of his neck before they caught in the towel that Sherlock had draped across his shoulders.

He parted his hair on the side as he always did, sighing as it curled and flicked out. It was utterly hopeless. He combed the rest of it quickly and left it to do whatever it would undoubtedly do anyway, with or without his input. Peering into the mirror, Sherlock growled in the back of his neck at the sight of a small cluster of white-headed pimples on his forehead, just slightly to the left of where his hair usually fell. He looked young, far too young, with his razor nicks and scattered spots and his awkward, overlarge limbs. 

Sherlock heard a deep voice murmuring in the nursery. He heard his cousin Lola’s giggled reply. He closed his eyes, sighed, wrapped himself in his dressing gown and stalked back to his room, John’s hands and his smile and his warm, easy laugh still there at the forefront of his mind.

*** 

John dressed for dinner immediately after his bath, knotting his bow tie carefully around his neck. His cheeks coloured every time he thought of his bath, as he thought of what he’d imagined as he lay submerged in the water, as he thought of what he’d done with those images running through his head. He shouldn’t do things like that. It wasn’t decent, and it wasn’t fair to Sherlock. He wouldn’t mention what had happened at the fountain, what had almost happened on the steps. Sherlock had evidently been embarrassed and it wouldn’t do to open old wounds.

The heat of the day had eased off somewhat as late afternoon was slowly replaced by the approaching evening. It was no longer uncomfortable to move around and even putting his dinner jacket on wasn’t much of a hardship for John. He looked in the mirror, cracked in one corner from an accident two years ago, and smiled at his reflection after re-arranging his hair with his fingers. He looked presentable enough.

‘I’m off now!’ John called as he walked downstairs. His mother leant against the kitchen doorway, folding her arms across her middle and smiling at him.

‘You’re not a bit like your father,’ she murmured. ‘Not one bit.’

John pulled her close and kissed her cheek. ‘That’s because I’m all yours,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back late. Don’t worry if I’m gone a while.’

‘I’ll try.’ She cupped his face in her hands. ‘Mind your manners.’

Grinning, John kissed her again and left their little cottage with a wave, closing the gate carefully behind him.

Bumblebees hovered around the wildflowers that grew at the edges of the path, their shadows growing long as the sun began to set.

***

Sherlock was half-dressed and smoking frantically as he paced around his room. He couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He’d spent the entire year, probably even more, trying to ignore the near-desperate longing he felt for John. It had been there for years, since he was sixteen at least, but the events of the day had brought everything rushing to a head and he couldn’t _think_ for wanting.

Something had to be done. 

Throwing his cigarette out of the window after one last inhale, Sherlock pulled his trousers on and tucked his shirt in, tying the emerald green bow tie that had been a present from John’s mother around his neck, fastening his cuffs with the mother of pearl cufflinks John himself had bought him for his last birthday. He breathed out and shrugged his dinner jacket on.

Before he could think better of it, before he could think at all, he scratched out a two-sentence letter to John on a thin piece of paper with his ink pen, folding it and shoving it inside his jacket pocket before it had had time to dry. He bent down to put on his shoes and socks and placed his lighter and cigarettes in his trouser pocket before making his way downstairs, towards where Mycroft’s drawling voice could be heard.

Giles Gilchrist was tall and slim with white blonde hair and watery blue eyes. Sherlock disliked him instantly just from peering at him from behind a pillar in the hallway, but Sherlock disliked most people instantly, especially if they had anything to do with Mycroft. 

Both Mycroft and Gilchrist were standing next to the piano, chortling stupidly away over some hideous-looking cocktail. Sherlock frowned and quickly walked through the hallway to the door to the cellar, where Mummy allowed him to keep his chemistry equipment.

‘Sherlock!’

Hand on the cellar doorknob, Sherlock sighed, caught out. He turned to face Mycroft after a pause, his expression dark.

‘Sherlock, do come and meet Giles.’ Mycroft smiled his usual un-smile at Sherlock, who trudged into the drawing room. ‘Good God, boy, what’s that around your neck?’

‘It’s a bow tie, Mycroft, your fat cheeks obscuring your vision now?’

Mycroft’s jaw tightened and he ran his tongue over his top row of teeth. ‘It’s _green_.’

‘Yes, well done, top marks.’

‘We’re having dinner.’

‘Yes...’

‘Go and swap it for a black one,’ Mycroft said, stalking forwards, dropping his voice.

‘It was a gift from--’

‘I don’t care if it was a gift from President Roosevelt, it is not suitable for dinner.’

‘Why not?’

Mycroft leant in close to Sherlock. ‘Really, you are the most obstinate _child_ I have ever known in my life--’

‘Let him be, Mycroft, old chap,’ Gilchrist said, sauntering forwards. ‘Holmes the younger!’ he exclaimed when he came face to face with Sherlock. ‘I’ve heard all about you. Your brother’s very proud of you, you know, despite appearances.’ He grinned, his teeth pearly white, and offered his hand. ‘Giles Gilchrist. Pleasure.’

‘Charmed,’ Sherlock muttered, sounding anything but, engaging in a perfunctory handshake.

‘Love the bow tie.’ Gilchrist winked at Mycroft, who shook his head and sipped his cocktail, staring out of the window. Sherlock stood awkwardly for a moment before Gilchrist gestured him over to the drinks cabinet, looking far more at home than Sherlock had ever felt in their house before. ‘Let me make you something frightfully decadent, Sherlock old boy, you’ll love it.’

‘You’ve no evidence to suggest I will,’ Sherlock said, ignoring the glare from Mycroft, his own frown deepening when Gilchrist burst out laughing.

‘Oh, you’re exactly like your brother described, it’s utterly hilarious. He talks about you so much I feel as if I’ve known you all my life and heard sullenness like that from you thousands of times already. You’re a real character.’

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow and fiddled with the cufflinks from John as he moved to sit in the window seat, watching the path where John would soon appear, the note he’d scribbled out frantically seeming to weigh a ton in his jacket pocket. He rested his hand over where he knew it to be, his heart racing as he blocked out the sound of Mycroft and Gilchrist talking whilst Gilchrist did something no doubt abominable to crushed ice.

The bees that bumbled around the wildflowers at the edge of the path caught Sherlock’s eye. He tilted his head as he watched them buzz from flower to flower, quite drawn in by their clumsy movements. He nearly jumped when Gilchrist appeared at his side, offering a mint-garnished drink with his left hand.

‘Here you are, old boy. Gilchrist’s Gin Fizz, tell me what you think.’

Sherlock sipped the cocktail, which had been poured into one of their cut crystal glasses. ‘Gin, lemon, caster sugar and soda water, hardly _decadent_ , is it?’ Sherlock gave Gilchrist a withering look and placed the glass back in his hands, returning to staring out of the window.

‘Suit yourself,’ Gilchrist said, looking at Sherlock with contempt and knocking some of the drink back himself, his bravado and over-friendliness of earlier gone.

‘He’s only amusing for so long, Giles, as I see you’ve learnt,’ Mycroft said, staring fiercely at Sherlock, who ignored him. ‘He does so insist on being childish.’

‘I’m not a child,’ Sherlock muttered, his arms folded across his chest, legs spread out along the window seat.

‘No, the picture of maturity,’ Mycroft hissed into Sherlock’s ear as he made his way to the bottom of the stairs, the thunderous footfalls of the twins signalling their arrival.

‘Jackson, Pierrot, calm down,’ Mycroft ordered, looming over the seven-year-olds. They stopped and stomped down the last few steps, deliberately scuffing their shoes. ‘Where is your sister?’

‘Don’t care,’ Jackson muttered, glaring down at the floor and kicking his heel against the first step. ‘Where’s Sherlock? We want him to do his trick.’

Sherlock smirked as he imagined the look on Mycroft’s face. Mycroft had been the one to teach him how to deduce things - ‘the trick’ - when he was five years old, and would positively loathe the idea of Sherlock laying claim to the skill over himself.

‘He’s sitting in the window,’ came Mycroft’s reply, through gritted teeth if Sherlock was right.

The twins bounded in and jumped up next to Sherlock, ignoring Gilchrist entirely.

‘Go away,’ Sherlock said, staring out at the path still.

‘No,’ Pierrot said, playing with the hem of Sherlock’s trousers.

‘I’ll give you a shilling if you go away.’

‘A shilling _and_ a trick.’

‘It’s not a trick,’ Sherlock said slowly.

‘Lola says it’s a trick.’

‘Lola’s an idiot.’

The twins laughed gleefully at Sherlock calling their sister an idiot.

‘Do that man,’ Jackson said, pointing over to where Gilchrist was talking to Mycroft.

‘Him?’ Sherlock turned away from the window. ‘Easy.’

‘Go on, then!’

At that moment, Mrs Holmes and Lola walked into the room, both dressed for dinner. Lola was wearing a blue dress and had somehow managed to sneak some coral lipstick and pearl earrings past Mrs Holmes’s keen eye. Gilchrist bounded over to them whilst Mycroft did introductions and kissed both Mrs Holmes and Lola’s hands.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and began his deductions. ‘He’s very rich, keeps his cash in a roll in his jacket pocket, do you see that bulge, there?’ he murmured, pointing at where Gilchrist’s jacket stuck out from his chest. ‘You must split your winnings with me should he leave his jacket unattended.’

The boys giggled. ‘Go on, what else?’

‘His figure is athletic and I can tell from his ears and the way he holds his drink that he plays rugby and cricket. He’s also a good hurdler and not too bad at the long jump. He went to Oxford, his father was a rotten gambler who’s now dead and his underwear’s a size too small and twisted up into his bum.’

The twins began to howl with laughter. Sherlock dug in his pocket and pressed a small coin into each of their palms. ‘There. One trick, a shilling each, now bugger off.’ They ran out of the drawing room, whispering together, giggling again when they cast a backward look at Gilchrist’s nether regions.

Sherlock turned back to the window just in time to see John reach the end of the path. His easy mood vanished and nerves knotted in his chest as he and John looked at each other through the window. John smiled. Sherlock didn’t.

He ran and wrenched the door open before John could ring the bell and shoved his note into John’s hands before striding off in the direction of the library.

John blinked and unfolded the letter, scanning the two lines of Sherlock’s quick, untidy handwriting, ink spots scattered across the paper.

_I can’t stop thinking about the last time you kissed me. In my thoughts you make love to me all day long._


	3. Love's First Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock spend some time together in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from [From Love's First Fever to Her Plague ](http://www.internal.org/Dylan_Thomas/From_Loves_First_Fever_to_Her_Plague) by Dylan Thomas.

_I can’t stop thinking about the last time you kissed me. In my thoughts you make love to me all day long._

John blinked and screwed the letter into a ball, shoving it into his trouser pocket lest anyone see it. He swallowed, blinked again, thinking back to the last and only time he’d kissed Sherlock, or rather, the last and only time Sherlock had kissed him.

Mycroft’s thin, false laugh rang out from around the corner, followed by a donkey-like hee-haw from whoever his dinner companion was. John took a step towards the library. They’d been in the library then, too, four years ago, one evening in late September. He walked through the door and shut it, his eyes drawn towards Sherlock, who was leaning against the heavy mahogany desk, the lamp that sat on it casting his face into shadow. 

Sherlock’s voice, when he spoke, trembled uncharacteristically.

‘I said to you, I said don’t go, please don’t go.’ Sherlock’s hand tightened into a fist that rested atop a pile of papers on the desk and he looked down at them, pretending to read. ‘That’s what I said, do you remember?’ His strange eyes flicked up to meet John’s.

John stepped forward and Sherlock moved away from the table, to its side and backwards, into the heart of the hushed, dim library. 

‘And I said I have to go,’ John replied. ‘I have to go but I’ll come back to you before you know it.’

They referred to the first time John had gone away for university, when an even more graceless and awkward Sherlock had backed John into the library and kissed him desperately before running outside and not speaking to John until two months later, when they’d both been home for Christmas.

‘I always hated it when you left. I was so lonely and-’

‘I came back to you. I always did. I always will.’ John stepped forwards again and again Sherlock slipped backwards, along the rows of books to a darker corner of the library. 

‘You understand, then? You know how I... I’ve been ignoring it for years but this morning at the fountain-’

‘I understand,’ John said, his voice tight with some unexpressed emotion. ‘Yes, I understand exactly.’ He covered the space between them in three long strides and pushed Sherlock against one of the bookcases, sealing their lips together with a murmured sigh. His thigh slipped in between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock’s hand fluttered against the worn spines of Dickens and Hardy before he brought it up, trembling, to rest on John’s chest.

Pulling back just so there was a breath of space between their lips, John murmured, ‘Sherlock.’

Tongue brushing nervously over his cracked lips, Sherlock replied, ‘John.’ He nodded, and after that, there was no need for words. He pulled John into a fiercely demanding kiss, fingers fisted in the short hair at John’s nape. His body canted naturally towards John’s, his knees bent, legs swaying as he fought to stay upright, as he fought to battle the onslaught of sensation at John’s lips and hands and the strong press of his thigh. 

Sherlock, too bright, too caustic, too other, had never found himself the object of anyone’s affections - not at school and certainly not at Oxford. The way in which John’s fingers plucked at the buttons of their trousers and his face flushed and his eyes darkened rendered Sherlock breathless. He pressed back against the bookshelf and crushed his mouth against John’s again, his greedy moan muffled by John’s lips as John picked him up and pinned him against the heavy wooden shelf.

Frantically, Sherlock began to rut against John, throwing one arm to the side so that his fingers could curl around one of the rungs of the book ladder, his other hand gripping John’s shoulder. He rested a foot on another ladder rung for better leverage as he moved, face reddening, sweat beading at his temples.

John moaned, the sound deep in his chest as he tugged Sherlock’s bow tie away from his throat and threw it to the thick carpet, pulling Sherlock’s collar away from his neck so as to bite down on it. He sucked hungrily at Sherlock’s creamy skin, pressing his hips tighter against Sherlock’s as he felt the violent shudder that unfurled from the base of Sherlock’s spine, like fire licking up his vertebrae. 

‘Please,’ Sherlock said, near soundless, mouth moving against John’s forehead, damp with perspiration. He fiddled with John’s trouser buttons for a moment before loosening two, enough to slip John’s trousers down, where they pooled at his ankles in a twisted heap. ‘Please. I love you, please, I love you.’

John’s face twisted, as though Sherlock’s confession was something painful for him to hear. He bit and kissed at Sherlock’s neck and chest as his dominant hand struggled with Sherlock’s trouser buttons, eventually slipping them loose and curving his hand around the hot flesh trapped inside.

Arching away from the bookshelf, Sherlock spread his legs wider and gasped, eyes wide open.

John’s right hand closed around Sherlock’s left on the ladder as he began to move with Sherlock, hips thrusting inexpertly. Whilst not being the innocent Sherlock was, John’s experience was limited to a few awkward fumbles in the rooms of Oxford colleges, as well as one best-forgotten night with a lad who worked at one of the city’s tea rooms during his first few weeks there. He gripped tightly onto Sherlock’s hand as his knees weakened from the sensation of being pressed so intimately against Sherlock, the same Sherlock who had seemed so distant and impossible earlier that day.

‘I love you,’ he groaned, face against Sherlock’s throat. ‘I love you, I love you...’

‘Kiss me,’ Sherlock begged, grasping John’s chin with sweaty fingers, pulling his face upwards. John closed his eyes and met Sherlock’s mouth, tongues pushing together, teeth clicking and catching on the tender skin of John’s inside lip. Sherlock sucked the blood away and began to move against John in earnest, establishing a rhythm that quickly grew in pace.

‘John,’ he sighed, enraptured, head falling back against one of the shelves. John’s fingers bit into Sherlock’s hips as they rocked together, the only sounds in the library the creaking floorboards and the whisper of fabric against fabric. A warm breeze blew in from the open window, carrying the heady scent of lilac in from the garden outside.

‘One day I’ll have you in a bed,’ Sherlock moaned. ‘One day I’ll have you there and... and...’

John moaned, the sound broken, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s before wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s length once again. He looked exactly as John had imagined just a few hours ago; flushed and wanton and so desperately _wanting_... ‘Come on,’ John groaned, tightening his fist. ‘Come on, let me see you, I want... I...’

John did not have to wait for long. Throwing his head back onto the shelf once again, Sherlock contorted under John’s hands, whimpering and gasping under the sudden wave of sensation, hot dampness running down John’s fingers that teased another shudder out of him. ‘I love you,’ Sherlock breathed as he came down, chest heaving, just able to pick his head up. ‘I love you.’ He nuzzled into John’s hair and smiled, cradling John’s face with shaking hands, kissing the tip of his ear and his temple. ‘Let’s lie down,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Lie down and I’ll take care of you, you teach me, I-’

Mycroft’s eyes, when Sherlock opened his and met them over John’s shoulder, were very cold, and very far away.


	4. The Incendiary Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins go missing and everything spirals out of control.
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning for descriptions of rape in this chapter.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from [Deaths and Entrances](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/deaths-and-entrances/) by Dylan Thomas. I struggle for time to reply to comments individually these days but please do know that I appreciate and am very thankful for your responses to my writing. <3

‘Mycroft,’ Sherlock whispered, fisting his hands in John’s shirt. 

‘What?’ John said with a laugh, kissing Sherlock’s neck. ‘I hope you’re not--’

‘Dinner is nearly ready,’ Mycroft said curtly, turning on his heel and leaving the library.

‘Oh God,’ John said, blinking and swallowing, stepping away from Sherlock. ‘Oh God, he... Sherlock he saw us, he saw me... with you and...’

‘I don’t care,’ Sherlock murmured, a deep blush splashed high on his cheeks as he clumsily got down from the ladder and fastened his trousers. ‘I’m not ashamed, I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I won’t be made to feel ashamed.’

‘Do you not understand that we could be imprisoned for what we just did?’ John hissed, wiping his hands and face on his handkerchief. 

‘It would be unlikely as there was no actual penetration involved--’ Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes at John’s incredulous look. ‘Of course I understand, of course I do!’ he said, glaring at the floor as he re-tied his bow tie.

John shook his head. ‘Why I didn’t think to lock the door...’

Sherlock pulled his jacket straight, using far more force than was necessary. ‘I meant what I said,’ he murmured, looking out of the window. ‘About you. I meant it, every word.’

The dying light from outdoors cast the bookshelves that surrounded them into shadow. A breeze blew in again and a clock chimed once in the silence.

‘So did I,’ John said, squeezing Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock nodded and hesitantly leant to kiss John’s cheek, brushing his spit-damp lips across John’s jaw. ‘You leave first.’

‘Alright.’ John pressed the tips of his fingers to Sherlock’s palm before exiting the library, smoothing his hair down nervously as he walked into the sitting room where everyone waited, drinks in hand.

‘Ah, John, at last!’ Mycroft said with a wolf’s smile, his legs crossed as he lounged against the back of the sofa. ‘We were beginning to think you’d never make it.’

‘Yes, ah... sorry I’m late.’ John coughed.

‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen Sherlock?’ Mycroft enquired, his voice airy.

‘Afraid not.’

‘Pity.’ Mycroft stood. ‘Anyway, this is Giles Gilchrist, the one I was telling you about.’ He motioned to where Gilchrist sat behind him, white blonde and watery-eyed. ‘Gilchrist, John Watson.’

‘Pleasure,’ Gilchrist said, his smile overly toothy, standing to shake John’s hand. ‘Medical man, I hear?’

‘Not quite,’ John said, meeting Gilchrist’s simpering blue eyes.

‘Excellent, excellent.’ Gilchrist drained his drink. John followed his gaze to Lola, Sherlock’s young cousin, who was twirling a lock of her ginger hair around her finger.

‘Sherlock!’ Mycroft exclaimed, smiling again as his brother entered the room.

Sherlock ignored him and dropped heavily into the empty space next to his mother on the sofa, crossing his legs and pulling a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one. ‘John?’ he said, shaking the packet.

‘Please.’ Sherlock threw the cigarettes to John, who caught them and lit one for himself, taking in a huge lungful of smoke.

***

Sherlock and John were seated side by side at dinner, Mycroft at Mrs Holmes’s right at the head of the table. Sherlock used his little finger to brush against John’s right hand in the lull between the starter and main course, trying to conceal a pleased smile when John hooked his index finger around Sherlock’s. The two of them were largely ignored, the conversation dominated by Gilchrist and his stories about his South African gold mine adventures. Mycroft shot them the occasional look and Sherlock glared back, defiant, his hair falling over one eye.

The main course was dry and dull, much like the conversation at the table. The late evening heat and the effort of eating caused Gilchrist to sweat, little beads of it dotted at his temples. Sherlock pointed the fact out to John in a whisper, staring at Mycroft as he leant in to John’s ear, almost daring him to say something. The bridge of Mycroft’s nose turned red.

The dinner plates had been cleared away and Sherlock had just lit himself and John a cigarette when Lola came clattering downstairs, a letter clenched in her small fist.

‘They’ve run away!’ she exclaimed, shaking the piece of paper.

‘Who have?’ Gilchrist said, standing and quickly kneeling in front of Lola. ‘The twins?’

Lola nodded. ‘They’ve run away because they said I was cruel to them and it’s hateful here,’ she sniffed, beginning to cry. 

‘We’ll look for them, they won’t have gone far,’ John said immediately, stubbing his unsmoked cigarette out, getting to his feet. ‘Come on, Sherlock.’

‘Sherlock, you come with me,’ Mycroft said, putting his dinner jacket back on as he stood. ‘Mother, you wait here--’

‘I’m going with John--’

‘Oh, Sherlock, just do as you’re told, John is perfectly capable of searching by himself,’ Mrs Holmes said, pressing her fingertips to her right temple. ‘Lola, come here, darling, stay with me.’

‘I must go and look for them,’ she said, shaking her head. 

‘Come with Sherlock and I. Gilchrist, John--’

‘We’ll split up,’ John said. ‘And we’ll need torches, Mycroft.’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft said, his lips pursed. ‘Yes, we will.’

***

The scent of lilacs still hung thick on the night air. 

***

‘Jackson!’ John called, his voice carrying across the lawns. He swept the torch in a semicircle from left to right as he made his way towards the woods. ‘Pierrot!’

***

Sherlock gave Mycroft the slip after ten minutes of scouring the lawns with him - a feat that Lola managed, too. He headed down towards the boathouse, skin prickling from the heat that pressed in still. ‘Boys?’ Sherlock shouted. He shone his torch down the damp steps and ducked his head to look. ‘Boys?’ Nothing but the dripping of water. He turned and ran back up towards the house.

***

‘Jackson?’ Mycroft said as he sidestepped down the damp stone stairs of the boathouse a few minutes after Sherlock had been, holding his torch aloft. ‘Pierrot, are you down here?’ He sighed through his nose, dragon-like, when the light revealed only a cantankerous goose. He walked through the boathouse and began to pick his way up the rocky path on its opposite side.

The air was close and humid, the algae and waterlife in the still pond giving the night a strange, cloying smell. The stars above shone brightly.

Mycroft swept his torch along the opposite bank. Foliage, ferns, flowers, scattered across the outcropping of rock, and in the middle, a pair of pale white buttocks, suit trousers caught around a pair of pale white knees, a pair of pale white hands clamping shut a mouth. A shock of red hair and a pair of pearl earrings and a powder blue dress, stained with grass and mud.

Mycroft gasped in shock, his torch slipping from his fingers.

The bushes rustled as the one disturbed made his escape.

***

‘Good God, what happened?’ Mrs Holmes cried when Mycroft staggered into the house, carrying a sobbing Lola in his arms. Sherlock, who had been sitting smoking on the steps to the side of the house, ran in close behind Mycroft.

‘Call a doctor,’ Mycroft said to Sherlock over his shoulder. ‘And the police.’

Sherlock blinked and gaped at the state of his cousin.

‘Quickly, Sherlock!’

Mycroft lay Lola down on one of the sofas. Mrs Holmes looked at him questioningly as she dropped heavily to her knees at Lola’s side.

Looking back at Sherlock, on the telephone in the foyer, Mycroft swallowed. ‘I know who did it,’ he said, glancing at his brother again and releasing a shaky breath. ‘I know who did this to her.’

***

‘You saw him, then?’ The Inspector asked, leaning forwards over Mycroft’s father’s desk in the darkened study.

Mycroft inhaled from his cigarette and nodded.

‘Yes, yes, I know it was him.’

‘You _know_ it was him?’ The Inspector said, ‘Or you saw him?’

Mycroft looked down at the polished cherrywood and breathed out the smoke, dense grey clouds falling in faltering coughs from his lips. 

‘I saw him,’ he murmured. ‘I saw him with my own eyes.’

***

The maid poured tea for the policemen.

The doctor examined Lola and prescribed aspirin and nerve tonic.

Gilchrist dozed on the sofa.

Mrs Holmes talked in hushed tones on the telephone.

Mycroft paced the length of the hall.

Sherlock sat with his face pressed against the cool glass of the bay window and smoked, waiting.

***

‘What’s taking them so long?’ Sherlock snapped, glowering at the group of policemen that had gathered at the entrance of the house. ‘If they took me to where it happened I could have it all neatly tied up for them in under five minutes, as could you, Mycroft--’

‘They are simply doing their job--’

‘Standing about being gormless and drinking us out of tea?’ Sherlock crushed his cigarette against the window. ‘I’m jolly pleased for them they’ve found such an occupation, I wonder if I might join them--’

‘Everyone needs to be interviewed,’ Mycroft bit out, tightening his hand into a fist. ‘They cannot take one person’s testimony alone as gospel.’

Sherlock glared. ‘Ridiculously inefficient.’

A light flickered down on the lawn below. Sherlock leapt off the window seat and through the front door, silhouetted by the light that poured out from the hallway as he stood at the top of the steps.

The policemen surrounding him stood straighter, their eyes following Sherlock’s. John walked slowly up the grass to the house, one twin lolling on his shoulders, half-asleep, the other stumbling at his side. He ascended the steps.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked as he lifted Jackson down from his shoulders, looking first at Sherlock and then the policemen. One slipped back inside.

‘You won’t believe the rotten business,’ Sherlock said, guiding the twins inside, John following close behind. ‘We’ve one thing less to trouble everyone at least, thanks to you. Where did you find them?’

‘Asleep in the woods,’ John replied, half-smiling as he and Sherlock stepped over the threshold.

‘John Watson?’ The Inspector who’d been interviewing everyone asked gruffly, meeting both John and Sherlock in the entrance hall.

‘Uh, yes, that’s me...’ John frowned, looking from Sherlock, whose face was equally confused, to Mycroft, standing by the telephone table, to the uniformed policemen and then the Inspector.

The Inspector nodded and a policeman behind John gripped his wrists roughly, snapping a metal handcuff onto his right wrist.

Everyone spoke at once and there was a flurry of movement as John was led out to the police car, waiting on the path.

‘What are you doing?’

‘You’re under arrest on suspicion of the rape of--’

‘You can’t _possibly_ believe it was him--’

‘Sherlock, come here--’

‘On suspicion of _what_?’

‘Who or what on earth has given you cause to suspect _him_ , this is--’

‘You do not have to say anything--’

‘Sherlock, calm down--’

‘I don’t understand--’

‘NO!’ Sherlock lunged out of Mycroft’s grip and grabbed John’s forearm as the frantic crowd reached the gravel path at the bottom of the steps. ‘No you can’t, he couldn’t have, he _didn’t_.’ Sherlock’s eyes were wild as he pleaded with the Inspector. ‘He’s not a -- he’s not -- he’s a _good man_ , Mycroft--’

Sherlock turned to appeal to his brother, his grip tightening on John’s arm, who was himself arguing with the Inspector.

Mycroft didn’t lift his eyes from the ground.

‘No,’ Sherlock murmured, shaking his head. ‘Tell me you didn’t--’

The policeman holding John dragged him roughly away towards the waiting car whilst Sherlock was distracted. John raised his voice over the crunching of gravel and the sound of the car’s engine starting even as he was pushed into the back.

‘I don’t even know what’s happened, I don’t understand, would somebody just bloody--’

The revving of the engine caught Sherlock’s attention and he flattened himself against the side of the car, tapping on the window with his hand. John stopped shouting and turned.

‘I love you,’ Sherlock mouthed through the glass, not caring who saw, not now. ‘I’ll fix this.’

John closed his eyes as the car pulled away.

Sherlock watched it go.


End file.
